Glimpses Through the Years
by Ivanolix
Summary: A series of ficlets focusing on Faramir's life at various points in the Fourth Age, each one drawing inspiration from a phrase in Psalms 23. Not religious.
1. My Shepherd

Introduction: While reading through Psalms 23, I was suddenly inspired to write a couple Faramir ficlets. As I looked at it more closely, I saw a ficlet idea in almost every phrase, and this is the result. These ficlets are not of any fixed length, and they are connected to each other most often only by the quote of the Psalm at the beginning of each one, though some of them will be related to each other. All of them relate to Faramir at some point in the Fourth Age.

**My Shepherd**_("The Lord is my shepherd...")_

Though the wind in his face thrilled him as the fields of Rohan sped past beneath the hooves of his horse, Faramir slowed his gallop to trot more carefully around a herd of sheep. The animals continued their rhythmic masticating of the tender green shoots, oblivious of anything beyond their slow world.

"Good day, lord Steward," called the shepherd amiably, his face shaded beneath a floppy hat woven of straw.

"Good day," responded Faramir, his heart light and his tongue freer because of it. "How do your sheep do?"

"They do well," said the shepherd, sucking on a piece of grass. "It is good land for sheep."

Faramir nodded as he drew closer to pass by. "It is indeed; Rohan is blessed with an abundance of that land. In Gondor we are hard pressed to find good sheep country, though we also have very few men who know what it is to be a good shepherd."

"Ah, it is not so hard," said the shepherd, brushing off the concern. "Why, surely your lordship must know this."

Faramir laughed merrily. "I have never been near a sheep, save in the form of a leg of lamb, so what special knowledge could I have?"

The shepherd looked up at him as he sat high on his steed. "No, perhaps, but you are familiar with the process, though humans are more stubborn overall."

Faramir smiled. His horse pranced to be away on another gallop, grumbling in its equine way,but he held it in check for his attention was caught. "Are you comparing the office of Steward to a shepherd's post?" he asked.

"Yes, I am doing that," said the shepherd with a vague grin as he stooped to pick a fresh piece of grass. "For do not your people look to you for everything, as my sheep do: for fresh water, for food, and for safety when dangers come, whether natural or enemy-made?"

"Perhaps," said Faramir carefully, "but I do not shave their heads come summer."

The shepherd laughed, a cracking laugh, but with a warmth to it. "No, I cannot say you do that, but can you not compare taxes and shearing? You take some of their belongings, then use it in a way that will benefit them, and they soon grow back what you took." And he glanced up at Faramir with almost a challenge in his eyes.

"You are very shrewd man, good shepherd," said Faramir wryly. "I am sure that your sheep benefit greatly from your wit being focused on their care."

"What else is there to do in the day if I do not think?" said the shepherd with a grin. "Yes, I can make my living well, and theirs also. If I did not so, they would not follow wherever I lead. You see, we are both good shepherds in that way, my lord."

Faramir dipped his head. "I thank you. May we both continue to endeavor to do the best for those who shelter under our rod."

"Good day, lord Steward," said the shepherd, bowing his own head. "And may you bear the Steward's Rod with as much care as I do my own."

And with a farewell nod, Faramir galloped across the fields again, the pounding of the fresh turf mingling with the rushing of wind in his ears once more.

_Author's Notes: This is supposed to take place right after the funeral of Theoden._


	2. I Shall Not Want

**I Shall Not Want**_ ("...I shall not want...")_

Faramir approached his desk with brooding, his mind troubled by his imagining of its contents. It was time now, when he should look over the reports of the season. Alas, though the War of the Ring was over, he feared its lasting consequences.

The farmers' fields in Gondor, left untended or even pillaged, had been subject to hasty attempts of restoration through the winter and early spring of 3020, and planting had gone ahead almost as normal, but it was done with only a half-hope of success. Faramir took the first report, and with a sigh he opened it. Reading a few lines, he frowned and shook his head, setting it aside and picking up the next one. It also was set aside quickly, and it was not long before the reports from each district had all been scanned. Brow condensed, but with a different emotion growing in his heart, Faramir stood and left in search of his King.

"My lord," called Faramir down the hall as Aragorn was almost disappearing around a corner.

Aragorn turned with questioning evident in his gaze, but his face grew subtly older as he remembered Faramir's task that day. "Yes? Come to give me the worst?"

"I have," said Faramir, his voice sounding a little distant and light.

"Well? Will we survive this winter?"

Faramir's hand waved in front of him as he appeared lost for words. Then, he looked straight at Aragorn and said: "My lord, it is a miracle!"

Knowing Faramir fairly well by now, Aragorn waited for the vagaries to be dispelled.

"The crops," said Faramir, shaking his head, "they flourished this year."

"You must have read the figures wrong," said Aragorn with a frown. "Let me see them."

Faramir looked cryptically at his King. "My lord," he said smoothly, "of the two of us, who has been around more paperwork and figures in the last few years?"

Aragorn did not respond to this, putting a hand to his forehead in confusion. "But that cannot be. The crops all failed to be planted in time last year, and surely this year could not make up for that."

Faramir let out a breathy laugh. "I know. It is impossible, I know. But every crop, from Anorien to Dol Amroth, has given near twice its normal harvest this year." He paused, and then whispered: "We are being blessed."

Aragorn smiled and put a hand on Faramir's arm. "We are," he said fervently. "And if we ever doubted the worth of what we did in the War, this reward would vanquish all doubt. We are blessed."

"Whatever this year brings," said Faramir with a smile of his own, "at least we may know that we shall not want."

Aragorn laughed, relief driving away a few small wrinkles. "Thank the Valar, that is true!"

* * *

_Author's Notes: I imagine that crops were damaged by the War of the Ring, which happened in early spring. However, I also imagine that the bumper crop that the Hobbits experienced in 1420 was world-wide, so that Gondor and Rohan would also experience a good year._


	3. Green Pastures

**Green Pastures**_("...he makes me lie down in green pastures...")_

"Ada?" Elboron pulled up his pony when he saw that his father had stopped at the Gate. "Ada, are you riding in?"

Faramir sat on his horse, looking out over the Pelennor. "Just a moment, my son. A moment is all I ask."

Elboron rode up beside Faramir. "What is it, Ada?"

Faramir smiled at his young son. "It is so green," he said. "I never tire of looking at it."

"It's green back home," said Elboron, unimpressed.

"But there was once a day that I believed these fields would never be green again," said Faramir softly.

Elboron scoffed at such nonsense—even after the dryest summer fields turned green again when the season turned—but chose to say nothing.

Faramir turned to him and ruffled his hair. "You scoff, Elboron, and that does not irritate me. You cannot even imagine what it feels like to believe the world is coming to an end." A moment more, as he allowed himself to soak in the image of daisy dotted verdure, a wistful look upon his face.

And while Elboron eyed his father curiously, Faramir gave a little sigh, and they turned to ride up into the city. Elboron shrugged; his father often said vague things like that. Sighing over verdure, of all things! It was not going anywhere. Perhaps when he was older he would understand.


	4. Beside Still Waters

**Beside Still Waters**_("...he leads me beside still waters...")_

Eowyn's stride as she walked at Faramir's side was slower than his, as her toes curled to cling to the strange moist substance that was called sand. She had at first wrinkled her eyes in disgust at the foreign qualities of it, but Faramir had suggested that she walk barefoot in it before making a decision, in that tone that she always took to be a dare, though whether it was or not was unclear.

It was not unpleasant, she finally decided, but growing up among the tall grass of Rohan, she could not understand Faramir's delight in sand—how could one like something that scratched and hid in every crook and cranny of one? Having decided, though, she walked more swiftly along the beach. Faramir was not far ahead, standing with back straight and face set, the dipping sun making his hair glint like deep maroon. He said nothing as she drew near.

Knowing of his past dreams, she put a hand on his shoulder. "Faramir? Are you troubled by the wave?"

He breathed out suddenly, turning to face her. His face lost its neutrality, and she saw peace shining from it, so that his answer became moot. "Oh no, the sea does not trouble me now."

He put an arm around her shoulders, and with the other, gestured over the crimson-stained sea. "Look," he whispered. "The sea is calm and still, as all children of Numenor wish it. It is only when it storms that the terror of past folly and punishment comes upon us. No, Eowyn, this sea is the sea that can capture the hearts of Men and Elves."

Eowyn settled softly into his embrace, and while he gazed on the sea, she looked up quietly into his face. For a moment she wished to understand what moved him, to have the blood of Numenor run in her veins. And then she looked back over the sea, and sighed in contentment. There was nothing strange here. Even she could feel the soothing effect of the still waters.

_Author's Notes: This is meant to show Eowyn's trip to Dol Amroth to meet Faramir's remaining family; and also her first exposure to the Sea. According to Tolkien, Faramir was often troubled by dreams of the Drowning of Numenor_


	5. Restores My Soul

**Restore My Soul**_ ("...he restores my soul.")_

"Swim, Ada! The water is lovely!" And, with a splash, Theowyn lay back in the stream and tried to float.

Faramir looked up from where he sat on the bank, and a grin crossed his face when Elboron splashed water into Theowyn's face, prompting her to jerk with surprise, then sink with a squeal. But he did not join them.

"Do you think still about your work?" asked Eowyn, coming to sit beside him. "It was the entire purpose of this to give you a rest from it."

"I do not think of my duties," said Faramir, still watching as Theowyn splashed Elboron full in the face for his trick, but giggling as she did so.

Eowyn tipped her head and looked at him. "You should be enjoying yourself. Why do you not swim?"

Faramir looked into her face then, and his eyes shone gently. "To watch as my children play fearlessly—it gives me more soothing than anything else. They live in happiness, and it restores my soul to see it."

"Oh, very well put," said Eowyn with a grin of her own. "If you must use _such_ fair words, I will not try to persuade you otherwise, however much I may believe that such is the goal you desired."

Faramir's eyelids drooped a little to hide the twinkle, and he turned to watch his children again, saying in his attempt at a neutral tone: "What good would it do, beloved, to have fair words and not use them to fullest advantage?"

Eowyn laughed, and that sound alone, for which he had striven and endeavored, brought restoration sevenfold to Faramir's heart.


	6. Paths of Righteousness

**Paths of Righteousness** _(He leads me down the paths of righteousness...")_

Elboron sat on the corner of his bed, facing the wall. "You are going to punish me now?"

"Do you think you deserve it?" answered Faramir.

"Yes," said Elboron.

"Then why should you expect otherwise?"

Elboron bowed his head, and Faramir sat by his side. Faramir could see his son's hands clenching and unclenching as he struggled for words. "But Adar, if I know what I did was wrong, why must I still be punished?"

Faramir put a hand on his son's shoulder, but Elboron flinched only a little and did not turn away. "You knew what you did was wrong?"

"Yes."

"And you still did it?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Welcome to Middle-earth, my son," said Faramir. "There is no perfection here, in Men or Elves, to keep us from wrong. Each man must struggle for himself to conquer the evil that is in this world, but though the choice is his alone, there is help for him. The love of family may keep him doing what is right, or the counsel of friends and mentors—but when that fails?"

Elboron was silent. Faramir continued: "When we do wrong, we do not always see that which will come as a natural consequence; but we can always foresee a punishment. I must punish you, not so that you see that what you did was wrong, but so that you may be stronger to resist it the next time."

"I understand," said Elboron quietly. "I will not protest."

Faramir lowered his arm, until it was wrapped around Elboron's shoulders. "As long as you can face your faults, I will be proud of you, my son."

He rose and departed, not feeling Elboron's gaze following him. The eldest son of Faramir sighed and bowed his head. Next time, he would make sure to resist that which called him to put tacks on his teacher's seat.


	7. His Name's Sake

**His Name's Sake**_("...for his name's sake.")_

The murmur that went through the crowd seemed not to touch Faramir. He looked at the glove that lay where it had been flung at his feet, and he looked up at the man who had flung it. Swallowing all natural reaction, he turned to walk away.

"Are all Gondorians cowards?" called the man.

"I cannot accept your challenge, even if I would," said Faramir, looking back at him, and the Haradrim lord felt a flush of satisfaction at detecting the slight unsteadiness in the Steward of Gondor's tone. "I am an ambassador."

"Step down for a moment, then, if you are not afraid," challenged the lord. "Do not hide behind your post! Fight me as man to man, not Gondor to Harad."

Faramir shook his head. "I will not sully my lord the King by engaging in a petty fight."

"Proper little sycophant, eh," said the lord of the South.

Faramir did not move anything but his eyes, which he raised to gaze piercingly into those of his challenger. And whatever the man could say, he could not say that he there was fear in the Steward's eyes. "I am not so," said Faramir, slowly and with a forced calm. "I do not always agree with my King; but I yet hold his name honorable. Do not ask me to do anything unworthy of it, for even as a man, I am still a representative of Gondor and her King, and will strive to keep its legacy pure."

The Haradrim lord stared back at Faramir, but the urge for battle was gone out of him. "Ah, be so perfectly loyal then! Such ways disgust me."

"I will remain so," said Faramir, but something resembling a twinkle came into his deep eyes. "It may not be an easy road, but I made my choice long ago, and we of Gondor at least do not break our word, nor do we balk at difficult tasks."

And with a bow, he turned and departed the presence of the lords of Harad.

_A/N: At some point in Gondor's relations with Harad, I imagine Faramir, naturally diplomatic, would be sent as an ambassador._


	8. Through the Valley

**Through the Valley**_ ("Even though I walk through the valley...")_

Faramir's hand rested on the grey trunk of a tree, and whether it was the Elvish influence of this place, or that the trees remembered the Elves who spoke to them and woke them, he could feel the life within the wood. Stepping forward softly, he melted into the trees as if he was still a Ranger in Ithilien, becoming a part of the land. And this was a land that knew no stain, that, even now, could revive and heal.

"Oh Boromir," he whispered, "you came to this place in its waxing, and yet you had no regret, while I come in its waning, and feel painfully the call of its peaceful comfort."

"Your brother did regret it," said the Elf who had come up behind Faramir. "He sought to hide behind his pride in land and home, but he was touched by this place."

"Lord Elrohir," acknowledged Faramir. "I did not know that you knew my brother."

"He was here for three months," said Elrohir with a smile tugging at his lips, "and though I was not there for all that time, there were enough stories when I returned to make me feel as if I had spent all those months with him."

Faramir smiled. "So even he was moved by the Elves, as he swore he never would be?"

"But of course," said Elrohir with a rogue smile. "What business is it of ours except to beguile the children of Men, even though they be one and forty?"

Faramir looked away, letting his gaze glide over all the valley that he could see before him. "And yet he left this place."

"Your brother knew how to defeat danger," said Elrohir. "He saw the danger in this place, its call to drop all duty to be in peace, and he hardened his heart to leave. Alas, there have been some less aware of their duty."

A grave look came over the face of Faramir, Steward of Gondor. "I know what it is you speak of, Lord Elrohir, but fear nothing of me. Perhaps I might once have been lured by this place, with its scrolls and its lack of war, but I now know that such things do not come freely; they can only be earned by valiant men striving to protect what is pure. And it is my duty in this life to fight so that Imladris remains a haven, not that I might sit in that haven while others fight for me."

Elrohir placed a hand on the Steward's shoulder. "You are wise, Lord Faramir; I do not fear for you. Your king has sent you here for other purposes, but before they are accomplished, there is time for you to rest here. Do so! For such is the purpose of the Valley of Imladris."

Faramir smiled again. "Gladly will I follow your advice. I will wander here yet awhile, but I shall not lose myself."

His hand left the trunk of the tree where it had rested, and traveled to another, and to yet another, as he crossed the fair valley of Rivendell. There was no need to hurry, and every step satisfied the longing for Elvishness that had ever rested in his heart.


	9. Shadow of Death

**Shadow of Death**_("...of the shadow of death...")_

"Faramir? Faramir!"

Slowly, faintly, Faramir opened his eyes. Above him was Eomer's face, his great golden bushy beard distractingly mussed, his grey eyes full of concern.

"Faramir, you must stay awake! I will get you to the healers at once."

And then, Faramir acknowledged the hot throbbing in his midsection, and the cloud of pain in his aching head that threatened to overwhelm him. Eomer was lifting him, and he could not but cry out, though that hurt even more.

It had been a hunting party, that was all. They were to hunt a Mumakil that had been terrorizing Ithilien, and their party was large and well-equipped. But they had been too loud, alerting the animal to their presence, and Faramir had crept silently ahead to find its location. A rustling in the bushes, and he had drawn his sword, but the Mumakil was cunningly silent as well, and had come quickly upon him. He had run, knowing the futility of facing such a creature on his own, but the last thing he remembered was a misplaced step, and in his haste he had not put his sword in its sheath, and had dropped and fallen upon it. The Mumakil had charged past him as he fell, and a foot had grazed his head, so that darkness fell upon him until Eomer came.

And now he was drifting between consciousness and darkness, pain and dizziness from lack of blood warring for the foremost place in his mind. He knew his chances of survival were quickly lessening, the hit to the head only magnifying the damage of a wide sword wound that had been bleeding freely. Though thought was failing him, in the darkness he began to know that he might die.

He barely registered when Eomer rejoined the group, barely registered the hum of worried voices around him, Aragorn's not least so. Soon hands were examining the wound, and pain shot through him with every touch, threatening to claim him.

Never had pain been so great, never had he felt so near death.

"Stay awake, Faramir!" came Aragorn's voice through the red haze of pain.

_No,_ thought Faramir, _let me rest, let me alone._

"Faramir!" A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him a little. His eyes opened a little. "Faramir, I need you to stay with me. Is your sword wound the only one?"

"My...head..." answered Faramir, whispering. He closed his eyes again as his head was examined, wishing this would end, wishing they would leave him in peace. He could not survive this, surely they could see that.

"Faramir!" Aragorn's voice kept calling him back. "Faramir, stay with me!"

"I am...dying...Aragorn," whispered Faramir.

"You are not!" said Aragorn, growling. "Do not dare think so! You must fight now, Faramir, fight for your life!" As Faramir's eyes closed again, Aragorn placed his hands on either side of Faramir's head, seeking for the younger man's mind with his own.

_Aragorn, it is not right to refuse death when it comes,_ said Faramir's fading mind.

_Death is not coming for you, Faramir, not yet. You are letting despair take you down, you can survive this if you try._

_You hope vainly, Aragorn, and I am fading quickly. I beg you, do not make this more difficult. _Faramir felt as if the pain was worsening as Aragorn was dragging his mind towards the surface.

_You are a fool, Faramir! I will make this as difficult as possible, because I shall not let you die! Your duty demands that you try harder, Faramir, for your wife and your son! Do not abandon your duty and leave them! This shadow of death comes from the Enemy, and you must overcome it!_

With a gasp, Faramir felt Aragorn's will keeping him, though for the moment he wanted only peace.

_Fight, Faramir! Your life is not your own, but belongs to your people and your family!_

And as he was being held to life by the will of Aragorn alone, there was a brief moment of respite just long enough for guilt to seep in through the pain. _No!_ He could not die. He was still needed, duty called him. He could not despair, could not give in to the enemy that he despised, could not live out eternity with the inevitable weight of guilt on his shoulders. _Very well_, he thought.

And with his tired will, he put forth every effort, until he could just open his eyes. Aragorn, slumped wearily after his effort at Faramir's side, gave him a wan smile.

"You will live, Faramir," he whispered.

Faramir breathed out as sleep overcame him, but he felt it was the sleep of exhaustion and no longer the shadow of death. With his will he knew it to be true: he would survive.

_A/N: Before I have the anti-weak Faramir fans (of whom I am one) upon me in hordes, let me say that I believe Faramir was prone to depression when physically weakened, as shown by his seemingly uncharacteristic ride to doom after being afflicted with the Black Breath. _


	10. Fear No Evil

**I Fear No Evil**_ ("...I will fear no evil...")_

The sun glared down, absorbed in the black and silver of so many uniforms and multiplied by the reflection from the sand. All was bright and shining, all was warm and almost-pleasant, and yet no Gondorian heart was lightened. If there was evil in an icy chill, it could also be found in blazing heat.

As the sun glanced from breastplate, to helmet, to sword blade, and thus into the eyes of Gondor's soldiers, Faramir stood at the head of his company and looked forward even with squinting eyes.

A ripple of red, a ripple of gold, a ripple of deep maroon, and the army of the Haradrim came over the far hill as if floating above the sand. The sun sparkled on their spear points, a friendlier light than the harsh glare from Gondorian weaponry. For these Southrons looked to the sun with worship, and to all appearance enjoyed her favor. Today was their day.

As Faramir watched them approach, he felt his heart clench tightly, and the grip on his pommel tensed. They were outnumbered for this battle, perhaps no more than usual, but this battle would not be won easily by either force. And Faramir felt fear. He was no warrior whose heart rose at the thought of bloodshed, no man to seek the thrill of battle, but one who would fight with a thousand words in preference to as many arrows. No amount of experience could drive away what he felt before each battle, however the events multiplied, and no practice could make his heart ever at ease. But the man that men called fearless was no illusion either; Faramir knew one way to drive away fear.

_I will fear no evil. Whatever forces are against me, I will face with honor and dignity, knowing that my cause is just. For they may fight for conquest, but I fight only to protect the helpless. For every enemy's life I take, there is an innocent one that I save. I study war so that children may have liberty to study language and history. May the Valar aid my cause, for it is just. And I will fear no evil._

With a gaze now steely, a gaze that the enemy would flee from, Faramir drew his sword and took a deep breath.


	11. With Me

**With Me **_("...for you are with me...")_

With a cracking yawn, for mornings were not friendly to him, Faramir ran his fingers through the black mane of his mount, soaking up the last bit of sleep that was floating around his head.

"Are you going before breakfast?" came a quiet voice from behind one of the marble pillars. A breeze wafted the skirt of a small nightgown into Faramir's view.

"Liri," said Faramir, shaking his head, "both you and I know how many times you have been informed not to step outside on your own. I shall not leave until you are safely back in the house."

"Then I will stay here forever," said Elliriel, grasping the cool marble firmly.

Faramir began to speak, but a yawn took him, and so he walked slowly back to where his littlest daughter stood. "What is it?" he asked as soon as he could speak.

"You are leaving me again," she said reproachfully, but did not cry.

"The King calls me," he answered, squeezing her hand a little. "And what does that mean?"

"That all other duties fall behind," she recited, and then let go of her pillar and hugged his arm. "But I am not a duty, why must I stay behind?"

But both she and Faramir knew why, and so he said nothing, and she squeezed him tightly.

"I hate it when you go," she said. "I hate it that I am too small to ride as fast as you."

"Hate is a strong word, Liri," said Faramir. "Do you not know what you should say instead?"

"No," she said.

"Dislike. It is a softer word. If you do love me so much," he said, giving her tummy a little tickle, "then you shall work on your riding every day, and as soon as you are old enough, you may always be with me."

"Always?" Elliriel asked. "Even Mama is not always with you!"

"Sometimes duties pull us separate ways," said Faramir. "But, if you are able then, I will not send you away again."

"Truly?" she asked, pulling his head down to look deep in his eyes.

"Truly," said Faramir, dipping in to plant a kiss on her nose.

"I suppose that means I have to go inside now," she said, sighing.

Faramir nodded.

She walked nearly silently back into the house, pausing only to look back with a flash of a smile and a whispered "Goodbye, Ada." Faramir followed to make sure that the door was secured, the warmth of her little hands on the side of his face staying with him for a few seconds, and her words inscribed on his soul, child after his own heart. Smiling a little, and stifling another yawn, Faramir mounted his horse. Though she could not feel it, he knew that she would always be with him in spirit.


	12. Rod and Staff

**Rod and Staff **_("...your rod and staff...")_

Putting the Steward's Rod before him, Faramir leant a little on it. But symbol of his authority was grown unsteady, and it slid a little from his grasp, causing him to slip.

A strong arm supported him, and a rumbling voice said: "There now, Grandfather, what would Grandmama say?"

Faramir looked at Barahir, and despite his grey-flecked hair managed a roguish look. "She would likely mumble and mutter at how favored by fortune I am at not having yet tripped over my own aged feet."

Barahir nodded. "Perhaps she would," he said laughingly. And he stooped to pick up the rod for his grandfather, giving its golden top a quick polish before handing it back. "Why Grandfather, since you are so incredibly old and feeble, why do you not use a staff?"

Slipping under the arm that still supported him, Faramir pinned it behind the young man's back. "This old and feeble Steward requires no staff to support him in his dotage, I am certain."

Barahir gasped, but then laughed. "But you do, Grandfather. What if I had not been there? Why do you not walk with a staff?"

Faramir sighed a little, and his hand rested rather wearily on the top of the Steward's Rod. Shaking his head slowly, he answered quietly, "I do not wish to revisit the memories that a staff might bring back to me, my young one. There was once when an aged man, feeble in appearance, was very dear to me, and a staff could only call him up before my eyes. And, alas, he is gone from this world forever, my truest friend."

"Mithrandir?" asked Barahir, his eyes brimming with curiosity.

Faramir nodded, resting his arm on his grandson's shoulder as they descended the stairs together. "Yes, even he."

"Will you tell me a about him?" asked Barahir. "There are no stories that tell of you and he together, and I would like to hear one about the 'old man in a battered hat, who leaned upon a thorny staff.'"

"You know your poetry well," said Faramir, the thin wrinkles in his face clearing. "Very well, O one whose desire for bedtime stories has not yet settled. Where shall I begin? I first met Mithrandir when he came to see my father, and I wished to ask him a very important question about Earendil..."

With an eager and intent face, Barahir listened to all that was said, as grandfather and grandson walked slowly out of the Citadel.

_A/N: The story that Faramir tells may be found in my story "Curious Questions". Barahir, Faramir's grandson, is Tolkien's creation, even if his personality is mine. The poetry that he quotes is from Frodo's lament.  
_


	13. Comfort Me

**Comfort Me**_("...they comfort me.")_

Faramir sat alone on a bench, staring at his hands. With one finger he traced a raised vein on his left hand, and then he held both hands as still as he could, watching for them to shake. But they did not. Though his hair was grey, and though a few wrinkles gave a wise look to his face, Faramir was of Numenorean blood and did not show extreme age even when more than a century old. Bowing his head, a breath escaped him; she whom he had just seen laid in the grave had looked many decades older than he, though she had been twelve years younger. The curse of longer mortality was hard to bear.

"Grandfather?" came a soft voice from behind him. He knew that voice, the voice of his eldest grandson. "Grandfather, you are not ill?"

"Nay, Feamirë," he answered slowly. "It is but heartsickness, and no cause for alarm."

Feamirë sat down by Faramir's side, and let one long hand rest on his grandfather's shoulder. "Why have they left you alone? You should not bear this pain without companionship."

Faramir offered a painful smile to the concerned Feamirë. "I believe, my young one, that they are attempting tact, knowing how I often wish to take care of my feelings in solitude."

"I believe that what you wish and what you need are quite in disagreement here," said Feamirë firmly. "You have been solitary far too much, and so I will not leave you, unless you command me."

Faramir raised a hand, and let it brush Feamirë's cheek. "Do you know," he said very softly, "that is just what she would say if she lived still."

"I am—sorry," said Feamirë, stumbling a little. "I did not wish to worsen your grief."

But Faramir gripped his arm as he began to rise, and his grasp was no less powerful than it had been in his warring days. "No, Feamirë, let not cold words check a kind deed. Sit down; I command it."

Feamirë sat, and Faramir looked into his face steadily. "You were in the right, my young one," he said, his voice warming a little as the pain slowly decreased. "Too long has it been since I let another give me comfort."

_A/N: From what I understand of Faramir, he seems to be rather a loner, and yet also the sort of person who needs people. Feamirë is an OC, the eldest son of Elboron and older brother of Barahir, and stars in my story "New Seasons"._


	14. Prepare a Table

**Prepare a Table**_("You prepare a table before me...")_

"No, no—" said Merry, shaking his head and coughing a little. He took another sip and cleared his throat. "You cannot serve pork with anything but apples, Faramir, and soft sweet ones at that."

"I beg pardon for such a mistake," said Faramir, his voice with a rare creaking warmth. "What other counsel can you offer?"

"Listen to your steward," said Merry, his old white head nodding. "That is, I believe, why you have him."

Faramir shook his head. "Alas, Master Meriadoc, but not in this matter. As his father was before, Astafon is too frugal to plan a banquet." He sighed, and looked west to where the sun would be setting in but a few hours. "Nay, I always had another organize these."

Merry was inwardly cursing himself, as even his own memories flashed images of a fair princess of Ithilien who was now forever gone. "Well, that is what hobbits are for, eh?" he said with a gruff tone. "For when men fail in matters of food and drink."

"Of course, my good friend," said Faramir. "Now tell me, shall it be Rohirric ale?"

The hobbit's face wrinkled with disgust, and Faramir let loose a small smile before they continued planning the feast.

_A/N: Tolkien says that Merry and Pippin went to Gondor after Eomer died, which I imagine is a year before the death of Eowyn, and as shown in my story "The Gift of Men", Merry lives with Faramir and Eowyn. This is the last of the fics centered around Eowyn's death...this fic took a sad turn that I wasn't expecting it to.  
_


	15. Presence of Enemies

**Presence of My Enemies**_("...in the presence of my enemies...")_

With a gasp, Faramir withdrew his sword from the last Southron, looking everywhere but at the carnage his blade had caused. Hearing a sound behind him, he turned to see Asedaur attempting to get past him to the gate. With swift movements, he drew his bow from where it hung at his back, and stepped to block the entrance.

"Not taking prisoners now?" asked Asedaur mockingly, with a flash of teeth. "You are capable of learning, then, you men of Gondor."

"The verdict was passed upon you," said Faramir as he looked down the grey shaft. "You shall not be let to escape again."

"True," said the Lord of Harad, fear absent from his face. "But can you follow through? Can you do what you plan, knowing in your heart that this death will haunt your dreams? I know you are no cold-blooded warrior."

"Better my dreams than those of my children when you ravage Gondor," said Faramir in a half-whisper.

"Noble words," said Asedaur, nodding. He spread wide his arms and stepped forward. "Then do it!" he hissed.

Faramir's hand was steady on the bowstring, but he did not loose. He knew he should not have looked, but his gaze met Asedaur's, as he looked vainly for something that might ease his decision. But all he found was confusion. This man had not the look of evil, his eyes brown and not evilly lit, his face fair if exotic. He looked an innocent man—and yet Faramir shuddered at what he had done in such a fair form. This was not how it was supposed to be; evil was supposed to look as unnatural as it felt, so that men could not hesitate in ridding the world of it. It was not supposed to be present in one who should have been good.

"We have vanquished the Orcs, only so that we face the evil in ourselves, in men," whispered Faramir. "What has happened to the black and the white?"

But as a mocking grin marked Asedaur's face, Faramir spoke more firmly. "And yet, I cannot let you live to cause the deaths of others."

Steadily, he let his finger loose the string. The arrow flew on its deadly mission, straight and true, and Asedaur fell forward, his eyes swiftly unseeing. He lay still, his life flowing forth to soak into the turf. A choking sensation gripped Faramir's throat, and he knew that though he had killed this man to protect innocent children, yet once this man had been an innocent child himself. What imperfect world did he live in where children of men grew to do the foul work of Orcs?

Faramir fell to his knees in the bloody dust and wept for fallen Arda.


	16. Anoint My Head

**Anoint My Head** _("...you anoint my head with oil...")_

"You have a headache," said Eowyn softly, looking over to where Faramir attempted to doze.

"I do," he answered, "but that should not surprise either of us on this day."

"I know," she answered, swallowing a little, and a slight shiver taking her that had little to do with the chill March weather. "I took precautions today."

"Precautions?" asked Faramir, opening an eye.

"Lavender oil," she said with a half-smile. "For calming nerves. I did not choose healing lightly, and I have taken my herbal studies to heart."

"My clever wife," murmured Faramir. "I wish I had your foresight."

Eowyn rose and moved with a rustling of fabric to sit at Faramir's side. "If you like," she said, "I could massage your scalp with it, and it might ease your headache. That is," she added, "if you would not mind smelling of lavender."

He smiled, though his eyes remained closed, and said quietly: "I would be most grateful for whatever remedy the master healer suggests."

So Eowyn took a small phial from her pocket, and poured some of the sweet smelling oil into her hand, rolling it back and forth and breathing upon it to warm it. Gently resting Faramir's head on a cushion, she cupped her hand and let the oil run smoothly from his hairline to the back of his scalp. With her long fingers she began to rub it in, swirling in circular patterns over his scalp as he breathed in the soothing fragrance. She could feel the loosening of tension as she worked.

"Thank you," he murmured, leaning back into her gentle treatment. The minutes passed without another word, until: "Did you know that in primitive elven cultures anointing with oil was a coronation ceremony?"

Eowyn bubbled with laughter, and her fingers danced lightly around the more sensitive spots behind his ears. "Oh Faramir, only you could bring up history even when being cured of the headache."

"It was not only a fact," he continued, gently protesting. "Suppose you that the King would find the implications of this royal treatment interesting?"

"Bah," said Eowyn affectionately, "the King knows that I could hold no nominal royalty in higher honor than you." And she finished with a brush of her lips to his brow.

Faramir lifted himself until he looked into Eowyn's eyes. "Well then," he said with a grin that portrayed all that needed to be said about the success of the remedy, "if the King has no objections, I believe I may add Queen of Herbal Treatments to your titles, beloved." And he pulled her in for a gentle kiss, ending March 15th of 3022 with warmth that belied the outdoor weather.


	17. Cup Overflows

**Cup Overflows** _("...my cup overflows.")_

"To health!" cried Eomer, raising his glass so quickly that some crimson droplets flew out and landed in the oblivious Gimli's beard.

"To prosperity!" added Legolas, lifting his glass but a bit and then dipping his head to sip the sweet wine slowly.

"To children," toasted Aragorn, his left hand resting protectively on Arwen's round belly.

"To love," said Elfwine, winking down the table at his blushing maiden.

"To safety," added Eomer, following his son's gaze with a disapproving look.

"And to life!" finished Faramir, and as he brought the cup to his lips, Eowyn's elbow bumped his, and a splash of red went down his tunic.

"Oh, I am sorry," she murmured.

"Nonsense," he replied wiping it up and smiling. "It must be a good omen, that my life shall be overabundant."

"To life, then," said Eowyn with cheer.


	18. Goodness and Mercy

**Goodness and Mercy** _("...Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me...")_

Faramir sat, papers in hand, quietly oblivious to his pacing wife.

"They have certainly lost no time, that is sure," said Eowyn. "'Tis but fifteen years later, and history is being written. Bah! Had they not invented a device to do their scribing for them, they would be less hasty to pen the past, I doubt not."

Faramir set the papers down in his lap and looked up without speaking.

"Well?" asked Eowyn, folding her arms across her chest.

He said: "I see not why you should be so upset; it is simplistic, to be sure, but for my part I feel my life has been dealt with fairly."

"Fairly?" responded Eowyn. "Fairly! You are mentioned only for being the surviving son of Denethor, and therefore the new Steward. Aragorn is remembered for his feats in arms, I am remembered for my deeds, even Peregrin the halfling is remembered for saving you, but you are not remembered, not renowned for anything!" She came to his side. "They do not recognize your worth now any more than they did then."

Faramir smiled, and set her upon his lap, putting his arms around her. "History is for deeds, and I have performed none."

"None," snorted Eowyn, but resting her head comfortably on his shoulder. "I suppose to them keeping Gondor's border safe and aiding the Ringbearer would be considered nothing. And of course, a man simply _cannot_ be important if he has not performed some high and mighty feat of arms."

Faramir chuckled. "Of course. Defend me if you wish, beloved, but I tell you that I care not. As long as I am remembered well by those who know me, I do not care what texts say."

Eowyn sighed. "Perhaps if I bring a petition signed by all who know you and are equally outraged I am sure, and give it to these historians, they might be persuaded to add '_a man loved by all for his goodness and mercy_' when you are first mentioned..."

Faramir just smiled and held her closer to him, for whether the exact truth was remembered or not, he was happy.

_A/N: My idea of the level of civilization in Gondor is that they would very soon invent a printing press of some kind._


	19. All the Days of My Life

**All the Days of My Life** _("...all the days of my life...")_

Barahir sat alone, rubbing his hand to ease the cramping. So many stories, so many tales, so many truths and legends were before him, and all calling out that he had a responsibility to them now that they were no longer there to speak for themselves. He brushed a hand over one pile, the pile of domestic scenes that had been related to him in the warmest terms, such as when his uncle Beren had put ink in his grandfather's tea, and when Aunt Elliriel had sleepwalked into a rosebush. There was another pile of tales that Faramir had told of his early life, tales that Barahir had merely dictated. And of course, up through the War and beyond he had his grandmother Eowyn's testimony as well, and that was not always in perfect alignment with her husband's.

Faramir had told many tales to his grandson, but Barahir wondered if he ever knew how many more could be heard from men all through Gondor. Did he know how much a personage of legend he had become, the wise Steward who always did what he thought was right? Did he know that he featured in bedtime stories told by old men who had heard the stories from their fathers, relating events that, if all true, would mean that Faramir had personally aided every small town in the fiefs at some point in his life? Did he ever know that all the days of his life would be so remembered?

Barahir sighed. He probably did not; only writers and historians thought of how history would treat them. But as Barahir looked at the life that lay before him, he also doubted that Faramir would have done anything different had he known how history would see him. And Barahir smiled at that, and rose to get the last story. His work was almost complete.

_A/N: According to Tolkien, Barahir, Faramir's grandson, was a historian of some sort, and was the one who compiled "The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen"._


	20. Forever

**Forever**_("...and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.")_

"He is gone now," said Lothiriel, leaning upon Faramir as the only solid one left to her. "Gone to whatever lies beyond death."

"Yes, gone," whispered Faramir. "Waiting for us even now."

"Is that so?" asked Lothiriel. "I have heard of what happens to elves, but where is my Eomer now that he is no longer in Middle-earth? Where is Eowyn? Where are they, if Mandos is only for the Elves?"

"As if I know," responded Faramir, sadly laughing. "As if any of us knows with surety."

"Tell me, Faramir," said Lothiriel, her quiet voice tinged with demand. "Just tell me all you know; it does not matter if it is but rumor or truth, but I will not end my life with not a thought as to where my husband might be. Tell me, Faramir!"

Faramir wrapped an arm around her shaking shoulders. "Hush, Lothi, I will tell you, I will tell you." He sighed, and a whisper of breeze swept through the room. "It is said that Men go to a waiting place like the Mandos of the Elves when they die, until the ending of the world. At that time, the Elves will be lost forever, but some think that Illuvatar will remake the world so that Men may live there without evil or death—forever."

A tear fell down Lothiriel's wrinkled cheek. "Then all will be well?"

"I do not know," said Faramir. "I do not know."

"I do not care," said Lothiriel. "It is true, and I will be with my Eomer forever. Forever."

"Of course," said Faramir, and squeezed her tightly to him. "Of course, my little cousin." And so they stood together, waiting for forever.

_A/N: What Faramir speaks of is pure Tolkien, from "The Dialogue of Finrod and Andreth" _


End file.
